When All is Not Said and Done
by The Clockwork Angel
Summary: How can one rest in peace when all is not said and done? Previously published as "27."


**Though this story has expanded quite a bit, including a deeper plot line, polished writing, and a new title, don't forget the number twenty-seven...**

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**Chapter 1**

My eyes flutter open as I let out a breath; my pupils begin to dilate as they search for light in my dark surroundings. Little by little, shapes reveal themselves: tall, dead trees, small rocks, frozen puddles, and a large swamp. Dilapidated houses surround the thick muck, but there is no movement. Occasionally, I see a small flash of light darting between the abandoned homes, but otherwise I am utterly alone in the still darkness. A crescent moon shines dimly above me, partially blocked out by the cloudy night. There are no stars.

With one, fluid motion, I am standing up, nothing but a small, white figure in a foreboding area of dark woods. Despite the immense size of the swamp, I notice that trees have been knocked down to create an even larger clearing. The place had once been inhabited, but now had an air of solemnity that overpowered any past liveliness. Curiosity driving me forward, I effortlessly glide over frozen soil and through dense overgrowth. I know I am walking - I am placing one foot in front of the other - but I never feel my feet touch the ground. I feel more and more unnerved about this as I continue to make my way toward the dingy homes.

As I approach the first house, I sense a pair of eyes watching me, though from where, I cannot tell. I slowly spin myself around in a circle, looking for the other presence I know is there. My nerve has left me, making me a quaking shell of fear and confusion. My hands begin to shake as my eyes continue to roam over overgrown vegetable gardens, broken windows, and doors hanging from their hinges. Seeing nothing, I tell myself that I am acting overly superstitious, and I turn to walk toward the houses once more.

I have taken no more than a few timid steps when I see a flash of light flit across my peripheral vision. I quickly turn to look at the narrow, dark crossway between two houses, hands shaking violently now. Instinct screams at me, trying desperately to make me turn around and run for the safety of the surrounding woods. But curiosity is already putting my feet into motion, pulling me toward the very source of my fear.

The dark crossway is looming in front of me, becoming more and more distinct as I creep closer and closer. I can now see the short tufts of grass sticking up from the dirt pathway; I can now smell the putrid stench of rotting swampland; I can now hear something quietly shift to and fro in front of me. The sound is almost imperceptible, though still manages to reach my sensitive ears. I realize I have stopped walking, instead frozen in place, heart pounding and thoughts frantically racing. Should I continue my slow journey forward, or have I stopped for a reason? Is my body trying to warn me of possible danger? Does my subconscious know more than I believe? So many questions are at the forefront of my mind, challenging me to choose between fight and flight, to choose between discovery and ignorance.

A swift movement on my right forces me to choose; I jump backward, preparing for flight. Just as I am about to bolt toward the woods once more, I hear a soft, young voice.

"How have you perished?" The voice is light and airy, with a sing-song tone and slight echo. I turn around slowly, no longer frightened, but instead curious. My eyes fall upon the white form of a young girl, no more than six or seven years old. Her long auburn hair falls freely down her back, with two small pieces drawn back from her face and held together with a light blue bow. She is wearing a simple brown frock with a dirt-stained apron, and clutching a stuffed bear with a missing eye. She takes several small steps toward me, and I realize I have not yet answered her question.

"Perished? What do you mean?" Confusion wells within me at this child's words. Her response offers neither an explanation nor a sense of relief.

"How did you die?" Her large blue eyes look at me imploringly; a mix of genuine curiosity and regretful pity is all I can find in them. I offer a forced, nervous laugh.

"Why in the world would you believe me to be dead?" Though I pretend to be confident, the growing look of sadness in her eyes is beginning to frighten me. She clutches her stuffed bear to her chest, her eyes still holding my questioning gaze. Do I look dead? I certainly don't feel dead. I put my hand to my chest, feeling the soft fabric of a nightshirt. I trail my hand down my torso and over my abdomen, feeling the cool skin of my stomach through my shirt. A little too much rib is showing and my belly is a tad bit sunken in. But that's no reason to believe I'm dead...right?

The little girl is standing closer to me now, having taken several small steps forward. In the bright light of the now uncovered moon, I can see she has dark rings around her eye sockets, giving her a jaded, tortured appearance. She points her index finger at my heart and pauses. She stays, unmoving, in that position until my wandering hands make their way back up my chest, toward the left side of my sternum. Her arm falls back to her side and she continues to gaze at me quietly. She is holding the bear in only one hand now, letting it dangle near the ground just above a shallow puddle. I am about to warn her of the bear's imminent fate of becoming a soaking mess when I feel something under my thin shirt that catches my attention.

A thick, prominent scar laces down my body from just below my left collarbone, through the middle of my breast, and stops an inch or so above my navel. A wound of such size would certainly kill even the largest and healthiest of men, leaving no question as to what effect this gash had on my small frame. The skin around the sealed cut is dotted with bruises of mixed colors; some of the irregular shapes are deep purple, evidence of a recent impact of some sort. Other shapes are a mixture of yellow and green, significantly older than their darker brethren. As I examine my torso, it dawns upon me that I possess markings of abuse over an extended period of time, not those of a single, immediate incident. The murderous wound itself, a scar made of puckered, sensitive skin, is caked with dried blood, meaning that this wound was the last I received. But if the wound has already scarred over, how is the blood still present? Normally, it would take weeks for such a large gash to heal as completely as is on my chest, more than enough time for any remaining blood to detach itself from the skin. The situation only grows more curious when my young companion speaks up.

"We keep the wounds that define us; those blows that kill us in life only allow us to live on in death."

I lift my head abruptly, allowing my confused eyes to connect with this little girl's soulful blue ones. Her tone is regretful, as if informing a friend about a lost loved one. Yet her stance emanates bitterness and anger, as if she herself does not want to fully accept the words she has spoken. Her grip on her teddy bear has tightened immensely, and her free hand has locked itself into a fist. With her legs braced apart and her eyes burning under her auburn bangs, she looks menacing, like a tortured soul eager to punish a cruel world. And I realize that perhaps she is.

As I continue to gaze at her small form, my hand slips away from my chest and falls back to my side; I am focused only on the mournful child in front of me. We remain this way for some amount of time; I don't know if seconds, minutes, or hours pass us by. But at some point, her gaze begins to soften, and her little hands uncurl from their vice-like grips. Her teddy bear is no longer suffocating, but is instead being cradled against her breast, having sweet words whispered into its love-worn ears. As she apologizes to her friend, and her eyes no longer rest upon me, I look briefly at the sky. The moon's position has shifted since the time I woke up; it is now touching the tops of the trees, awaiting its replacement by a bright dawn. I have spent the entire night with a strange and angry child, and I am no closer to finding answers as to who, where, and why I am.

I continue to stare at the sky until the first pale yellows and oranges become visible, signs of the sun's imminent arrival. I am only disturbed when I sense a cold hand slip into mine, similar to how I sense my feet touching the ground without actually feeling the soil between my toes and below my heel. I turn my head slowly to the left and look down, allowing myself to once again gaze upon my miniature companion. She is not looking at me, but at the steady sunrise, clutching her bear in her left hand and my own hand in her right. With just the two of us and the quiet ascent of a new day, I am able to forget for a moment, and I feel an indescribable peace.


End file.
